Sweet Afton
by SilentQuill23
Summary: Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays, My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.


Because sometimes we need to be reminded that true love is only ever pure….

The last month had been hard on her. He could see it in the way her steps lost their sway, the way her eyes lost their shine. The pace he'd set had been grueling. They'd been going so hard for so long, even he began to feel the effects. If he allowed himself to be honest, he knew it wasn't necessary; all this extra exertion. But in the recesses of his mind, where he permitted himself to peruse only in times of complete seclusion, he felt it necessary. Necessary for _her._ He hadn't meant to harm her, to drag her down so far. He just wanted her to be happy. _Finally happy_.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,  
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;  
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,  
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

He felt his heart shatter a little more every time he thought about it, every time she smiled for _then_. _Then_; the time where she 'belonged'. His mind spat the word. She _belonged_ here with _him_! But she would never see it that way. He was no fool. He saw that spark in her eye when she knew she was headed home. Home…and again his heart shattered into smaller pieces. He hadn't thought it possible for the dust, what was left of the heart she wouldn't take, to get any more broken.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,  
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,  
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forebear,  
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

He looked through the grief in his eyes to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The hollows under her eyes matched tragically with the bruises covering her whole body. She fallen asleep just where he'd left her. She'd refused to go any further. She'd told him '_no'_. She'd told him no when all he ever wanted to hear her say was yes. Yes, I'll smile for you, yes, I'll let you hold me, yes, I'll love you, _Yes_, I'll stay with you, never leave 'til the day the earth calls my body back. But she'd said no, without even knowing.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,  
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills,  
There daily I wander as noon rises high  
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

He was being fair to no one. Least of all his future self. He let himself wallow in her scent, drown in her presence, merely prolonging the torture he would suffer the moment she left. But it was her he worried over. He'd never expected his madness to seep out so unchecked. He'd driven her so far down that she'd simply collapsed where she stood; her hand and feet dipped gently in the flow of the stream.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,  
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;  
There oft as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea  
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me.

He snarled at the innocent water as it caressed her delicate, scabbed fingers and her creamy, dirt stained skin as only a lover should. As only _he_ should. But, he could do nothing for it was the soft murmur of the stream that had finally given her the peace he had unwillingly denied her. So there was nothing to do but beg that it continue. Beg that the whisper kept her still. Beg that the water continue to give of itself to bring life to the tree, shading her from the sun he'd pushed her under. Beg that the water kept its banks and continued to touch her as he wished he could. This was wrong, it was all wrong.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,  
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides,  
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,  
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

The grass her bed, the wind her blanket, she lay sleeping in the shallow grasp of her fragile reprieve. How long had she gone with such exhaustion holding her? Why hadn't he _noticed_? He'd meant to protect her, save her. It was not supposed to be like this. Her feet should never have been allowed to crack and bleed only to be soothed by the false promise of the cool water they fell to. Her body was not supposed to be covered in bruises whose only ointment was the tender shower of falling blossoms. It was _never_ supposed to be like this.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,  
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,  
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,  
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

A gentle, careful claw brushed stray hair behind her ear. The only movement of her face that could be found was in her reflection where the water dreamed a touch it couldn't quite reach. He would never make her move again. She would never have to follow him again. It was what she would want, what she deserved. Her place wasn't here. And, as much as it pained him to say it, even without actually saying it, her place wasn't with him. So he would tell her. He would let her know of her freedom. He would let her know it was over. He would do it because he loved her; wanted her to be happy. And her happiness was only ever to be found in her freedom. He would tell her that she was released, no longer bound by obligation. He _would._ But now, she lay sleeping in the slight embrace of dreams. So he would wait. Wait and hope that the stream was enough to keep her, hold her til she could rise once more.

"Sweet Afton" a poem originally written by Robert Burns was redone as an even more beautiful song by Nickel Creek.


End file.
